World Eater

62

“I WANT TO GO HOME,” ALZAR WHIMPERED.

He sat on his knees, shuddering violently as Fancy hovered over his shoulder. He had thrown up all over himself for the second time that night, and the dehydration was finally taking its toll on him.

“We can't do that, Alzar. There are people after you,” Fancy murmured, taking him gently by the wrist, avoiding the vomit stains on his palms. He climbed out of the ditch on weak legs, grabbing the side of the car for support.

“We're going on foot now. Would you like me to keep holding onto you?” she asked.

“Please,” Alzar whispered.

Fancy’s fingers were cold against Alzar’s skin, her porcelain flesh and manicured nails seemingly existing in a vacuum, immune to the filth around them. It was chilling.

Alzar stumbled forward as the sun crept over the tops of the trees, tendrils of yellow crawling across the horizon. He struggled to form a rough timeline of the night.

He had went to prom...and that was it.  Had Abaddon surfaced? That was the only explanation.

“You were talking about demons,” Alzar said slowly, swallowing down his own foul-tasting saliva, “Abaddon, is he…”

Fancy paused, her white gown spilling at her feet, untouched by the mud. “It is a demon,” she said, casting her eyes upward, “But you shouldn't worry yourself with that. A demon is nothing compared to you.”

Raw skin peaked between Fancy’s fingers, marks left on his wrist from being handcuffed. An image of the spines protruding from his flesh appeared in his mind, and he flinched.

He gritted his teeth, another headache forming between his temples. “Am I a demon, Miss Fancy?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“A demon? You’re something much more than that,” she said with a smile. Stars seemed to flash in Fancy’s eyes as she twisted her head back, her gaze making his heart pound.

“You're a World Eater.”